


Dinner Dates

by DulcimerGecko



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dinner, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-26
Updated: 2016-03-26
Packaged: 2018-05-29 03:13:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6356644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DulcimerGecko/pseuds/DulcimerGecko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A silly bit of fluff.  John includes a reluctant Sherlock as his "plus one" for an award's ceremony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinner Dates

~ * ~

"I don't see why we're doing this," Sherlock grumbled as he finished the knot of his hated bowtie. 

"Because it's Molly," John replied without any real heat, fastening his cufflinks. "Because she's very good at what she does. Because she puts up with far too much crap from both of us and because she's our friend and deserves to have us sitting in the audience and applauding for her when she's presented with an award for her innovative techniques in the field of post-mortem pathology toxicology identification."

"She never would have got so far if it hadn't been for my contributions," Sherlock huffed, reaching back to grab his tuxedo jacket and shrugging the garment on over his tailored shirt.

"Hush you," John scolded as he gave his hair one final, cursory brush with his fingers to make his fringe lie flat. "Yes, you gave her the initial idea, but Molly's the one who developed the research, documented the results and arranged the trials. Molly's the one who performed the controlled experiments and wrote the reports. I've read the article she got published in the BMJ—British Medical Journal, in case you've deleted that acronym—," John added, ignoring Sherlock's sneer. "Molly gives you credit for the inspiration, but since she's the one that did the actual work, she's the one that deserves to be recognized."

"Fine," Sherlock pouted, conceding to John's use of logic. "But why do we have to go to the dinner as well? Why can't we simply sneak in, do our part, and sneak out again? We've certainly had enough practice doing so from attending Mycroft's dull functions."

John responded with a grin and a cheeky wink. "Ah, now that's a treat for me." He stepped forward and brushed a light kiss across Sherlock's pout. "You look bloody fantastic in semi-formal dress," he murmured. "The monochrome colour scheme sets off your remarkable eyes. Plus I want to be able to show off the gorgeous genius I married to some of my colleagues." 

With a rumble of approval at John's unabashed praise, Sherlock leaned forward and deepened the kiss. Tongues tangled lazily in a smooth, wet glide, before John pulled back with a reluctant huff and a teasing nip to Sherlock's lower lip. 

"Enough of that," John gasped, his eyes dark with lust. "We'll be late."

"So?" Sherlock demanded, hands sliding past John's open jacket and over the waistcoat he wore underneath to grasp the shorter man's hips. His fingers flexed and Sherlock smiled, enjoying the play of muscles and the smooth texture of the fabric under his palms. Sherlock slid his hands higher to rest at John's waist. His thumbs moved in a slow slide, tracing gentle arches along John's ribs, causing the ticklish man to yelp and squirm away.

"Nope," John said, gentling his rejection with another brief kiss. "Stop pouting. You'll enjoy this one. The speaker's amazing—I've heard him present before, and I want you to have the same opportunity." Sherlock opened his mouth, but John forestalled his complaint with an eyebrow wiggle and a promise-filled leer. "Don't worry…we'll pick this up when we get back."

~ * ~

The venue was packed.

"A museum? Really?" Sherlock scoffed. He turned, taking in the sight of linen-draped tables clustered around the skeletons and stuffed bodies of various mammals and prehistoric fossils. "Was this the best they could find?"

"Stop that," John scolded him. "You stay here and see if you can spot Molly. I'm going to run to the gents and get us both a glass of wine, all right?"

With a sulky nod Sherlock stuck his hands in his pockets. He spent the next few minutes preoccupying himself by deducing the other guests and mentally tracking how many other party-goers snuck covert looks at John's bum as John wove his way through the crowd. The number was surprisingly low, considering that John had a truly magnificent arse, but then most humans were idiots anyway, and their lack of appreciation for the finer things in life simply verified that fact.

When John returned, he pressed a glass of white wine into Sherlock's hand. "Here. Did you spot Molly?"

"Not yet," Sherlock replied, taking an absent-minded sip. He blinked and looked down at the glass. "What is this? It's surprisingly palatable."

"Damned if I know," John replied, taking a sip from his own tumbler of scotch. "I just asked the man behind the bar for a posh white for a posh git. He said he had just the thing." John stood on his toes, craning his neck upward as he scanned the room. 

"Never mind," Sherlock interrupted, placing a possessive hand on the small of John's back. "It appears that the queue is starting to form for dinner. Let's find our seats. We can catch up with Molly afterwards. 

~ * ~

Fifty minutes later, Sherlock was ready to tear his hair out, frustrated beyond belief by the insipid conversations of the diners around him. It was almost a relief when the shriek of an over-amplified microphone suddenly tore through the hall.

"Sorry about that!" The speaker, a generously curved Korean woman joked. The click of her stilettos echoed throughout the room. "I wanted to make sure that everybody was awake and paying attention for the next part of our program. I hope you've all enjoyed your Chianti and fava beans," she continued. "You'll have to pardon our substitution of baked salmon and Chicken Kiev for the main course. Liver is surprisingly hard for our caterers to come by in sufficient quantities to feed five hundred people!"

The room erupted in laughter and Sherlock frowned, aware that he was missing something.

"It's a movie reference," John leaned over to whisper in his ear. "A cannibalistic murderer eats the liver of one of his victims and brags about how nice it tasted with fava beans and a nice Chianti. We'll watch it some evening."

"That's surprisingly cultured of him," Sherlock whispered back. "Red wines generally do pair better with dark meats."

"Shhh!"

"Our caterers will be around in just a few minutes with the dessert carts and coffee," the speaker continued once the laughter had died down. "In the meantime, however, I'd like to introduce a man whose work should be well known to you morbid bunch." She shifted, her dark-brown gaze sweeping the room as she grinned at the audience. "For those of you that may have been dragged along by your spouses or girlfriends, the gentleman I'm about to introduce is responsible for much of the development and recognition of the field of forensic anthropology as a science." The woman paused to glance at the piece of paper in front of her, before raising the microphone back to her mouth. "Some credit this man with being the father of a human rights movement that uses forensic anthropology to prosecute war criminals for human rights violations including mass murder and, in some cases, genocide. He has traveled extensively, and his work has taken him from mass graves in Argentina and Guatemala to the former state of Yugoslavia. This man's work has been instrumental to bring justice and closure to the families of those whose loved ones were killed by John Wayne Gacy, Saddam Hussein, and others. Along the way, he's even had the opportunity to work with a few famous corpses, including King Tutankhamun, the Nazi war criminal Josef Mengele, and the assassinated American president, John F. Kennedy. Hailing all the way from America, I'd like you all to give a very warm welcome to one of my personal heroes, Doctor Clyde Snow!"

The room erupted into thunderous applause. Eyes alight with excitement and pleasure, Sherlock leaned over to breathe against John's ear, his breath a warm tickle against the sensitive skin. "I do hope we don't have cases for a few days," he rumbled. "Once I get done with you tonight, you're not going to be able to walk straight for a week!"

~ * ~

**Author's Note:**

> _This story is based off of two real-life experiences. Dr. Clyde Snow was a real person and I had the pleasure of listening to one of his fascinating (and morbid) lectures before he died.["Digging for the Disappeared" by Adam Rosenblatt](http://www.amazon.com/Digging-Disappeared-Forensic-Atrocity-Stanford/dp/080479491X/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1458953338&sr=8-1&keywords=digging+for+the+disappeared) and ["The Bone Woman: A Forensic Anthropologist's Search for Truth in the Mass Graves of Rwanda, Bosnia, Croatia, and Kosovo" by Clea Koff](http://www.amazon.com/Bone-Woman-Forensic-Anthropologists-Croatia/dp/0812968859/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1458953447&sr=8-1&keywords=the+bone+woman) are both very interesting reads that discuss his work and/or the work of his students. As far as the date and venue choice, well, I like to imagine that John Watson is at least as attentive as my own spouse. My husband invited me to be his 'plus one' at an appreciation dinner, specifically because he knew I'd get a kick out of a forensic anthropologist being the surprise guest speaker. Chocolate cake, red wine, pictures of human skulls and discussions of cold cases? Sounds like a perfect date to me, and I'm pretty sure our two boys would agree!_


End file.
